


Tactile Functions

by Silvermoonphantom (Daitoshi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daitoshi/pseuds/Silvermoonphantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't that Sherlock hated sex, in fact, he quite enjoyed it most of it. Watching John come apart like this, it was incredibly interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Please, touch me.

It was a request that never passed his lips, no matter how many times it sprang up in his mind. The idea tumbled around, leaping up to screaming heights and falling miserably back down to a whisper.  

****

He watched John’s face twist in pleasure, pink lips sticking together for a moment before opening in a gasp. He felt the smooth texture of the man’s thighs, long fingers brushing gently against, then digging into nerves that alighted the man’s body with arousal.

The man’s chest heaved, strong hands clenching at the bedsheets, and grey eyes tracked each movement with fascination, categorizing each reaction, filing it carefully away.

****

He was beautiful like this, John Watson, muscles coiled like a spring, completely unashamed of his own nudity as he breathed approval and gasped out requests for more of the same.

****

It wasn’t that Sherlock hated sex, in fact, he quite enjoyed it most of it. Watching John come apart like this, it was incredibly interesting.

No two sessions were exactly alike, and though some remained constant, the pressure points to set off arousal constantly shifted. There were always new reactions to find, new positions to try, new combinations of sensations to experiment with. John was always so reactive, too, it was brilliant.

He leaned down, lips trailing over the whispers of scars, teeth brushing the rise of a hip bone and eliciting a gasp from the man below. He blinked, vision filled with pale skin and red marks and the tiny quivers of muscle and flesh.

He loved the sight of John,  the smell of him, the touch, the taste. He adored the looks of awe and breathless anticipation.

He craved touch.

It was something John didn’t understand, and Sherlock too proud to ask for.

****

Sherlock still kissed the side of his neck, his hips, his forehead, hair, ears, hands, lips, anywhere he could. Kisses were shorthand for affection and it was tactile and wonderful.

He loved kisses.

The heavy making out, though... He could go without. The tongue itself wasn’t that sensitive, it was a messy ordeal and gave them both cricks in their necks. Sherlock wasn’t sure what John found so great in the activity, but allowed it with minimal complaint.

****

He nipped the crease between thigh and hip, tracing his tongue over the site and turning his head to create a trail teasingly down the inside of John’s thigh. He knew his curly hair was probably tickling the man’s exposed length, he could smell the man’s proximity. John groaned, and the corners of his lips quirked up in satisfaction. He placed a small kiss on the base of it, deliberately making the signature sound.

****

The arch of John’s spine was something he wanted to measure and extrapolate on, but it was gone too soon, and Sherlock knew better than to expect the man to hold that position. Instead, he slide his tongue along the length, lips closing around the side of it, sucking gently. The introduction to a scrape of teeth pulled an involuntary hip-jerk, and a low murmur of his name.

****

Sherlock did not hate sex. He did enjoy it. He enjoyed John’s reactions, in the context of sex. He enjoyed the worshipful look on in the man’s eyes, and the warm feeling afterward, when John whispered affectionate things and held him close.

He enjoyed how happy it made John, how relaxed and content.

Was he aroused by it? Did he want these exact actions reciprocated on his body? Certainly not.

His own arousal and subsequent orgasm was a physical response to physical stimuli. It was a chore, a way to reach the flooding of chemicals that orgasm would bring.  

Having another person do the touching only barely enhanced the experience, and usually led to an overall decrease in satisfaction due to the fact that they did not know what he was feeling, did not know when and how to adjust.  

There was no psychological kick to keep it going.

He just didn’t feel sexual attraction.

Romantic? Sure. Sensual? Definitely.

That last part’s what seemed to trip John up.

There was a difference between brushing down his length and deliberately pumping at it.

The first registered as something sensual - affection mixed with tactile expression that happened to be in a very sensitive area. The second swerved right into the sexual zone, and more than often just frustrated him. Why couldn’t John understand that he didn’t want that?

****

He liked touch. He liked a hand sliding down his legs, the feeling of rough palms against his hips. Fingertips tracing his shoulder blades and the line of his back felt delightful. It was hard to make a comparison that an innately sexual person would understand.

Perhaps it was like a foot massage. He wasn’t particularly interested in feet or ankles. He felt no special interest or joy in touching toes. (Despite what Anderson may think, the idiot. The toes in his fridge were an experiment) But he did like John. Appreciated the man’s dry humor, and his accepting attitude.

He liked the man enough to offer a foot massage, to sooth some pain and invite relaxation. He liked the man enough to make him happy through physical means, even if the consequences were his own sore fingers.

It was that same happy giving of sensation that Sherlock delivered to the rest of John’s body, during sex. Did he want his feet rubbed in return? Not particularly.

****

Except this metaphor was flawed, because an actual foot massage did sound rather nice.

Perhaps like food allergy? Even that wasn’t accurate.

****

Sherlock paused, lips hovering just over the head of John’s cock, breath ghosting over it. He glanced up, looking over the man’s body. It was barely trembling, the muscles in his abdomen tight, breath quick. The hand on John’s thigh could feel the flutter of a quick heartbeat, all signs that his partner was getting close. He lowered his mouth, dragging his bottom lip over the slit and his fingertips down John’s legs.

Difficult to explain, this whole touch thing. He wanted affectionate kisses, hugs from behind, a hand carding through his hair. He wanted possessive hands sliding down his trouser pockets, landing at the small of his back, holding tightly between his fingers.

He wanted their naked bodies pressed together, sharing body heat and the pleasant friction of skin upon skin, without the expectation of a ‘happy ending’ to follow.

He wanted John’s hands to wander, to smooth over his arms and chest, to touch and touch and never demand a reaction that wasn’t going to happen.

Sherlock didn’t have the urge to crush their mouths together in a battle of tongues, or rut mindlessly against his leg. He wasn’t aroused by the sight or feel of anything pressing against him, and his manhood didn’t care whether John was naked or clothed.

****

That’s not to say Sherlock didn’t prefer him naked. John was a beautiful human being, after all. Aesthetically pleasing, with a solid frame and a few dark freckles scattered across his back and chest. He enjoyed watching the play of muscles under pale skin, and the way light sometimes shone off his pale hair and and scattered into a halo. Even like this, exposed, vulnerable, Sherlock adored the trust that John put in him, by appearing this way.

The difference, he supposed, was that that adoration urged him to deliver kisses (forever the shorthand for affection) and protectively curl around John instead of attempt to copulate.

****

He felt the quiver of muscle and the heavier pull of breath, leaning back and wrapping his hand around the base of the man’s length, squeezing and pulling abruptly a few times to crest the wave of pleasure his partner was riding. John pushed his head backward into the pillow, neck creating an elegant line, broken only by the shadow cast across his adams apple.

He continued the flex of his wrist, reaching for the box of tissues on the bedside. John was panting, a few muscles quivering on their own as he slowly drifted back to earth.

Sherlock swiped away the mess on his partner’s stomach, feeling a curl of happiness at the inviting arms John lifted toward him.

He slunk down, accepting an open-mouthed kiss and tolerating the brush of tongues for a few moments before pulling back. John took that as his cue, laying one last peck on the tip of Sherlock’s nose before pulling away himself.

“That was wonderful” John murmured, the post-coital haze still thickening his words. His hands reached up, cupping Sherlock’s face and sliding a thumb over pink lips.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that? Brilliant, too.” And John’s eyes were slowly closing, sleep reaching up to embrace the shorter man. Broad hands were pulled back, tucked up to his own chin, body shifting to face the ceiling.

****

Sherlock laid for a moment, watching the man he loved slowly drift off.

There it was again, that voice. It curled in his gut like an unhappy worm, writhing around itself and smacking up against his kidneys.

There is a  difference between not liking sexual touch, and not liking any touch, the voice cried.

I adore you, You keep saying you adore me, and I believe you, I do. I just wish you’d show it to me in the way I most want.

**Please, touch me.**


	2. Chapter 2

On The Unending Stupidity Of Epics

by Sherlock Holmes

Imagine you are reading an incredibly engaging story about two heroes who have embarked upon a journey. What are they doing? Questing for an item, the narrative so helpfully says. These two heroes go through strife and peril to find this mysterious item that has been unfortunately placed in a dangerous and uninhabitable location. Thus the reason that heroes were employed for this quest and not say, the local errand boy.

True to epic hero standards, these two people learn to trust, respect and likely even love each other. Betrayals were had, truths found and after many deaths and tears, the two found the item and returned to the peoples who sent them in the first place.

Oddly enough, stories tend to skim over the return journey, when logic says that would actually be the most difficult part of the trip. For instance, all of those sneak assassinations they pulled  have likely been discovered by now, and the areas are now on high alert. All the nefarious people they escaped through tricky wordplay, poison-swapping or bargaining via unloyal minions would likely be extremely frustrated. They’d probably send out more vicious lions and well-armed minions than usual. Well, the poisoned ones would probably still be dead. Poison may be their best plan in that instance.

However, there may have been a more cunning vice-commander who was waiting for the perfect opportunity to perform a coup. Thus the previously nefarious organization foolishly wasting time on world domination could now be trying to sell their advanced weapons technology to the highest bidder, thus arming angry people against other furious people to promote a type of international warfare that this geographic region just isn’t prepared for.

Pending global destruction, the heroes of our tale must go through this landscape which has been made even MORE treacherous, simply by their passage. They’d likely be wounded, completely exhausted, and carrying an extremely valuable and likely unwieldy item.

Thus, you may be quite bewildered as to why writers never seemed to include the trip back home. Perhaps it’d be too hard to write? That excuse seems flimsy, because they wouldn’t even have to describe the environment or enemies again - the reader has already an image in their mind of the rocky place where x event happened. They also remember quite vivadly the boat on which z’s hand was horribly mangled by some sort of siren’s pet monster. I am, of course, exaggerating. No one’s hands have been mangled recently to my knowlege, but we are talking about a fantastical and purely hypothetical story.

You may also be wondering why such stories always involved a fair amount of romance and sex.

If it was intended for younger eyes, the ending was probably something closer to ‘happily ever after’ or ‘true love’s kiss’ or some other nonsense that leaves a feeling of closure without actually explaining anything. Older eyes may get some graphic scenes, or ‘they made love’ or possibly even a time-skip to the point where children have hence been born of their coupling and inherited their parent’s magnetism for adventure. If this was a tragedy, there was love and someone died before their time. Perhaps they both died, what woe! That death should tear two loving souls apart, how awful. I don’t see the appeal in ending the story there, quite honestly. There is always so much potential for remaining relatives to figure out exactly who did what and why, but they never seem to even try. No investigation or evidence. The narrative simply hands them the answer, when everyone knows this is hardly the case in real life.

But, that is not quite the point.

The point is wondering why. Why do people who love each other need to have sexual interest in one another? Aside from family relations, there are very few stories where two people are friends and go on an adventure and remain purely friends. No sexual tension, just a strong desire to stay by their side. There is love like that, after all. People who vow to protect their friends without secretly wanting to get into their trousers. People who can look at someone with admiration, inspiration and yes, even love, without feeling the need to get naked with that person.

And so you may ask yourself - where are these stories? Where can I read them?

Why is close friendship always seen as a tragic sacrifice one must endure when making romantic overtures - as if you’d lose that friendship if the affection were denied. Perhaps people just assume that with romantic intentions also come sexual intentions, despite that not always being the case. It is completely possible, nay, completely reasonable to think that a person can want to live forever with someone without also wanting to rub genitals.

Those urges seem quite different if you give them any thought at all.

As you venture on with whatever story you may be reading keep in mind that there are many types of loves. The Greeks divided it up into four sections.

First is Storge - Affection, acceptance, or the ability to put up with someone with a sigh and an eye-roll. To the Greeks is was primarily familial in nature, easy to form between parents and children.

The second is Philia - Mental love. It has a give-and-take, affectionate regard and friendship.  It includes loyalty to friends, family, and community, and requires virtue, equality and familiarity.

The third is Eros - "physical" passionate love, with sensual desire and longing. Romantic, pure emotion without the balance of logic. "Love at first sight". Eros does not have to be sexual in nature. Although eros is initially felt for a person, with contemplation it becomes an appreciation of the beauty within that person, or even becomes appreciation of beauty itself.

The final form is Agape -  it often refers to a general affection or deeper sense of "true unconditional love" rather than the attraction suggested by "eros." This love is selfless; it gives and expects nothing in return. Whether the love given is returned or not, the person continues to love (even without any self-benefit).

With so many types of love, why are so many stories revolving around the sexual side of Eros? What obsession do people have with sex that they cannot find the intrigue and tension surrounding the others as well? That is only one tiny fraction of the amount of love that someone can give!

What then, of the stories where one person has true Agape for someone, but that other only has Philia to offer in return. Where are the stories where one must accept that they will always be friends with this person, never their partner. Yet they continue to follow this one person, perfect in their eyes, around the world - not out of sexual desire, jealousy or some lingering desire to be the one to say marriage vows… rather, simply because they are in love, and are happiest by that person’s side. To be without that person would be to experience unending torment.

What of the other side, when a person is faced with Agape when they cannot return those feelings? What of the sorrow and indecision and fear in knowing that someone has placed all power over themselves into your hands. The war of pity and appreciation; This person you care for is hopelessly devoted to someone who does not return that devotion, yet endlessly thankful that there will always be one person you can count on and trust. Do you allow this person to continue following, blaming yourself for taking up their life, or do you attempt to drive them off and lose that person? Do you fake Agape in return?

These tense relationship conflicts erupt on their own between friends, family members and acquaintances all the time, without sex ever being involved.

Some people have the sexual side of Eros without feeling Agape or Philia towards their partner.

Some people never feel Agape at all.

It should not be a stretch for people to exist that feel all those other types of love, without the sexual side of Eros.

Nor should it feel like a lesser love when someone declares they feel Agape toward you - it is, after all, the ‘unconditional’ and ‘all-encompassing’ type of love...

 

As I am typing this out, I realize I have gotten quite sidetracked. I intended to write an introduction to one of John’s silly blog posts. I believe the original complaint was regarding his lengthy descriptions of unlawfully breaking into a heavily-guarded area (Of course I am exaggerating, Lestrade, this is a dramatic retelling of a mundane activity, as I’m sure you’ll hear from John in the morning.) and completely skimming over the dramatic retelling of our escape. As John will later note and likely complain about, greek descriptors of love (while being completely relevant to his poor writing techniques) have nothing to do with trying not to get stabbed while deducing a murderer’s rather obvious drug habit. Yet, with John watching me scrutinizingly from his perch at the kitchen table, I do know that he will become quite irate if I suddenly delete the majority of this text.

Since tea and silk shirts go quite poorly together, I’ll finish up here and leave him to read this lovely introduction after it’s been posted on his own blog. With the amount of time it takes for him to read and process information, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe across London by the time he realizes this is not what he requested.

  
On a side note, John, we are out of sugar. Once you’ve begun your trip to Gladstone Park, please pick some up on the way.


End file.
